


of inexperience and rumpled sweater vests

by calciseptine, faorism



Series: black tea and its dregs [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles realizes that a lot can happen in five months, and Erik remains blissfully ignorant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of inexperience and rumpled sweater vests

**Author's Note:**

> if there was ever a kink meme prompt that asked for “give me erik obsessing over charles’ thighs, omg,” this would be the fill for it. just saying. this beast was a joint effort between faor and steve. (and by beast, steve means that every word was like going three rounds with an old grizzly bear who had really bad salmon breath, one eye, and had been ironically nicknamed lefty.) (faor would also like it known that finding the correct tumblr tags for this fic was no easy task either.) ([this .gif](http://i40.tinypic.com/x585xh.jpg) is unnervingly accurate.) and because these two are utter nerds, have [the layout for erik's apartment.](http://i44.tinypic.com/23r8rhi.jpg)
> 
> all the love in the universe to heather, who gave this porn a chance. ♥
> 
> this story chronologically follows [this drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/helchron/works/315757), but you don't need to read that in order to enjoy this story. 
> 
> also available on [livejournal.](http://helchron.livejournal.com/6211.html)

Charles brings Erik supper a few minutes past eight. It's nothing special—just some corned beef, swiss, and dijon mustard on marble rye—but Erik eats the sandwiches in a grand total of seventeen bites. He washes it down with an off-brand cola Charles bought from the vending machine at the end of the hallway. When he's finished, he gives Charles one of his shark-like grins, the unconscious one that exposes all of his teeth and is given only when Charles has done something right.

"Thank you," Erik says as he presses a kiss to the curve of Charles' temple. "How did you know I haven't eaten since this morning?"

"I didn't," Charles answers as Erik presses the cold can of soda into his hands. "But I know you, all the same."

There's plaster dust in Erik's hair and on his dark shirt and jeans. The model in front of him—little more than a tower of white and wire—has yet to take any discernible shape, but Erik frowns at it as though it offends him. Charles sips slowly at the last third of cola as Erik scowls, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest and stark features deepening into a glower.

"Sometimes," Charles quips when the aluminum can is empty, "the quickest solution to a problem is to remove oneself from it."

Erik tosses Charles a glance, but his gaze quickly flickers back to his unfinished sculpture. For a moment, Charles believes that Erik is simply going to resume his one-sided staring contest with the plaster; Charles dispenses his opinion in the form of quotes quite often and he's become used to the way most people roll their eyes and ignore him completely. (His younger sister, Raven, had been the first to join this majority.) Erik surprises Charles, however, when he drops his arms and shrugs nonchalantly.

"You're right," Erik says as he tosses his large rasp onto a nearby, cluttered worktable. "If I don't stop soon, I'll end up doing something I regret."

Charles waits, perched on a spray-painted stool as Erik cleans up in a huge sink in the corner of the studio. He washes his hands and forearms, splashes some water on his face, and scrubs his rough palms over his hair and the back of his neck. Pointedly, Charles turns his attention to the other projects scattered around the room. Two weeks into the spring semester, most are mere frameworks of metal or wood. There's one composed entirely of precariously positioned paper cubes and another that looks like a child went crazy with popsicle sticks and a glue gun. None are even half the size of Erik's sculpture and only two others are as far along. Charles points this out as Erik strides back.

"Many of the students in this class are much younger than me," Erik replies as he shrugs on his leather jacket, knots his scarf about his throat, and pulls his beanie over his damp hair. "Only a couple of them are actively pursuing sculpture as a career choice."

Charles smiles as he slips off the red stool and grabs his tweed jacket. Erik is twenty-five and infinitely more serious about his coursework than the other students, who often save the bulk of their projects until a day or two before the due date. It makes Erik irritable; Charles shouldn't find it as endearing as he does. After all, he dislikes the same negative quality in his classmates and is just as annoyed by it as Erik.

"Well then," Charles says as he secures his own scarf. "I'll see you on Wednesday?"

Erik pauses, the motion of pulling his cigarette case from his back pocket stopped halfway. His blue eyes flicker upwards from the metal to Charles' face, then back again before Charles can identify the emotion lingering beyond the shield of his irises. Erik resumes his action by pulling a roll out and pinching it between two fingers, and then returns the case to its familiar home in his jean pocket. On any other day, Erik would have nodded in agreement and they would have parted ways; Erik would have headed north to his off-campus apartment while Charles would have returned to his dorm hall and the steady _click-click-clack_ of his roommate wasting time on Facebook. Yet for some unfathomable reason, Erik decides to go completely off script.

"It's not very late," Erik says. Each word is clear, precise, and deliberate. "Would you like to come back to my apartment?"

Charles' mind screeches to a halt an instant before it kicks back into double time. He thinks inanely about the introductory neurology paper he wanted to start and his eight a.m. Organic Chemistry II class. He isn't naïve; if he goes to Erik's apartment, he will more than likely end up spending the night. Yet the thrill of seeing the personal space of Erik's apartment and having Erik touch him shove those details into an insignificant corner of Charles' brain. He wants to know what Erik can give him beyond the deep kisses they've exchanged in the cold shadows of lecture halls and the sloppy, drunk gropes from the house party before winter break. Anticipation makes his grin return full force and threaten to cleave his face apart.

"It would be my pleasure," Charles answers.

The walk to Erik's apartment complex isn't long. He lives about half a mile from campus, in a small and old building with three rickety levels, and the time it takes to go from the art studio to the apartment is spent mostly in silence.

On the way there, Erik savors his cigarette. The smoke released with every exhale is indistinguishable from the white cloud of Charles' breaths, where the particles mingle and creep towards the dark sky together. Charles watches the random sworls and tries to ignore the too sensitive, too tight feeling of his flesh. Every nerve in his body is alive and attentive with the thought of Erik and it is as though even his molecules are eagerly vibrating, waiting to jump at the electricity the other man's touch always inspires. Even the cold, which bites enough to numb any exposed skin, is havoc to Charles.

It's an odd war, Charles' excitement battling with a strange nervousness that fills the fine space between his ribs and his lungs. He trusts Erik, without reservation and perhaps a bit foolishly, but it's been over a year since he was intimate with anyone. There's a certain gravity implied in going to Erik's apartment and Charles thinks—he hopes—that they'll do more than kiss. Ideas of what they could do ravage Charles and, by the time Erik tosses the scant remains of rolling paper and tobacco dredges to the dirty snow piled against the curb, Charles is ready to fly apart.

"Erik," he murmurs as they pass under a streetlight. "May I..."

Erik looks at Charles sideways, eyebrow cocked with an unspoken question and the corner of his mouth tilted a fraction upwards. Charles refuses to hesitate or succumb to embarrassment as he yanks off one of his mittens and curls his woolwarm fingers into the negative spaces of Erik's numb hand. The contact makes Charles instantly feel better even as Erik's eyebrow climbs higher. However, Erik does not say anything and he does not pull away. Two steps later, his fingers even tighten in reciprocation, as though he needs the reassurance of touch as much as Charles.

Charles knows that holding Erik's hand while walking to his apartment on a cold Tuesday night shouldn't feel like such an immense victory, but that logic hardly changes the simple fact that it does.

.

When they finally fall into bed together, it's a long drop to the futon Erik has stationed on the floor. Charles' breath leaves him as his back hits the thin mattress; Erik barely manages to throw a hand out to keep his frame from crashing into Charles. Immediately, Erik moves to reconnect, touching mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. He doesn’t notice how his knee digs into the solid flesh of Charles' thigh like a brand: scorching, painful, and possessive. Charles kisses Erik hard as he tugs his thigh away from underneath Erik and, with that unconscious and blatant permission, Erik slides even closer to the smaller man.

Charles smiles, little wrinkles pinching the sides of his eyes, in wonder at the fact that they were actually doing this. The kisses on his throat are real and biting; when Charles tilts his head backwards for more, Erik eagerly tongues the crevice of his jugular as though he's searching for the flutter of a heartbeat. Hands—trained, steady, powerful hands—dip over the curves of Charles' body and sense the slender lines obscured by his clothes, which Charles hopes—no, _knows_ —won't be on him for much longer. A trill of nervous exhilaration rings in Charles’ ears at the thought.

Pressed together like the pages of a book, they are close enough that Charles can feel the heavy line of Erik's cock and, behind it in the hollow angle where leg meets pelvis, the firm roundness of Erik's balls. Charles shudders like he's cold, like he's scared, like he's excited; it's a war of sensation waged inside his throat and thorax that he's never experienced before Erik and his electric touch. He wants to crawl into the hot, curious geometric shapes of Erik's body, wants them in his hands, in his mouth, between his legs, tucked innocently up against the cleft of his ass as they sleep.

He wants. He _wants._

"Erik, please," he pleads, and he's just as startled at the simper of his voice as he is of the trembling in his fingers as he attempts to pull Erik's worn tee up and off. The simple motion is hindered by his desperate desire; Erik has to pull away from Charles, sit back on his haunches, and peel the cotton from his pale skin. The low, soft light of the winter night illuminates his flesh and the deceptive fragility of his muscle and bone pushes a whimper from Charles.

“Yes, _yes,_ ” Erik hisses fervently as he works on Charles' clothing, his normally dexterous fingers fumbling with the buttons of Charles' vest. He doesn’t bother to contain his agitation as he pushes the garment away, only to reveal those of his crisp, Oxford shirt. “Damned, Charles. Too many fucking layers.”

“A gross oversight on my part,” Charles answers breathlessly as he lays his hands on Erik’s hips and dares to slip the tips of his eager fingers into Erik’s pants. His head spins from want. “Next time, I’ll dress more appropriately.”

The small room is dim; the fluorescent light of the hallway streams in from under the door and the world beyond the glass, balcony doors is black. But even in the dismal light, Charles sees the magnificent cords of Erik’s brawn between his equally magnificent kisses. The muscles flex and bend, stretch and pull, and demand all of Charles’ attention. He wants to touch every available inch but can't decide where to begin; as a result, his fingers skitter and it makes Erik chuckle darkly against the seam of Charles' mouth.

"So eager, Charles," Erik teases. "Slow down. Enjoy."

Erik's actions, however, belie his words, because Charles' vest and shirt are in a rumpled pile next to the futon less than a minute later. With a pleased and approving nod, Erik's mouth finds Charles’ again, his teeth sinking into Charles' lower lip, his tongue flicking against the tender swell. Charles sucks halfheartedly at Erik’s lip in return, the pleasant and unfocused effort undermined as he digs his fingers into the wings of Erik's deltoids, exploring the wide breadth of the other man's shoulders and memorizing how they flex under his touch. His hands and Erik's shoulders are not strangers—he's worked out the painful knots Erik develops after a particularly brutal studio session, after all—and the sensation of shifting muscle is not unfamiliar. However, there is a fascinating newness to the way they roll and flinch as Charles pushes his palm across their expanse, as he digs his nails in and drags. He does this again and again until Erik retaliates with a sharp bite.

The pain is unexpected and bright, and the rush of pleasure that follows is unexpected, too. When Charles moans Erik’s name, Erik shudders and hisses, “Again,” a benediction and an order all at once. Charles relents and whispers the other man's name like a prayer; Erik narcissistically follows his name with his tongue as it forms on the fresh, swollen circle of Charles’ lips.

The action surprises Charles with how sensual it is, as if the precise way Charles says “Erik” is the erotic act, not the kiss. It shouldn’t make sense, yet pride sinks deep and satisfied into the edges of his mind regardless, like it does on the rare occasion when Erik compliments him. A burst of confidence accompanies Charles' stray, bolstering, and disjointed thoughts: _yes, yes, I'm doing this right_ and _Erik likes it, likes this, wants me, **yes**_. Encouraged, Charles edges past the limits of his comfort zone and takes the initiative to act first. He slides his feet towards his center, plants them in the bedding, and lifts his pelvis upwards until his hips are flush against Erik’s. Charles feels their cocks align even through their pants; he cannot stop as he frots against Erik in desperate, instinctual half-thrusts.

With an appreciative growl, Erik's fingers flicker a reward over Charles' left nipple, and tweaks the nub to hardness before he rests his palm flat against Charles’ chest. It’s a firm, warm reminder of his presence that Charles cherishes instantly, and he secretly hopes the older man can feel how hard Charles’ heart is beating in the wide bowl of his hand.

The tenderness of the thought dispels any tension that stubbornly lingered within Charles’ body and he lets his mind idle blissfully as the rest of him basks in the attention Erik bestows. Yet as soon as he lets go, Charles is forced to acknowledge that no one has ever come this close to bringing Charles to a state of such serenity. Certainly, he has felt a euphoria comparable to it. There were times in middle school when his clumsy, growing hands sought to relieve the tension of his puberty; later, there were the few times he fumbled under the bras and skirts of girls just as wide-eyed and curious as him, but they always stopped after long for fear of being caught; and there were the moments later and rarer still, when his hands or mouth hovered between the legs of an eager partner or had their lips stretched around his cock. Those times are little compared to how Erik practically fucks Charles' mouth with his tongue and something _more_ rests trapped against his teeth: perhaps a longing or a fulfillment, perhaps a promise or a question.

Charles won’t name the sensation as it flares within him. He doesn't need to. He shakes under the terrible weight of his realization, needs to close his eyes to brace himself. It’s only been five months since he first met Erik. Five months is forever; five months is no time at all.

Five months is all it takes for Charles to fall in love.

He hesitates for a moment, but Charles refuses to fight his impulses, so he undoes the tortoise shell button of his slacks, quickly before he can change his mind. He doesn't ask Erik how he wants to progress and he doesn’t know what to expect as he shimmies his slacks and briefs down to his knees, concentrating so acutely on the motion that he barely hears Erik suck in a surprised breath. This is a first for Charles: it has always been _kissing, only,_ or _handjob, only,_ or _blowjob, only,_ the limitation stuck on at the end like a vocal tick. With Erik, Charles finds he’s willing to just let what will happen, happen.

Ignorant of Charles’ humbling epiphany, Erik glances down, and stops.

Charles is not self-conscious about his body. He knows he's attractive, but he also knows that it comes in fragments and at the price of circumstance. The advantage of his pink lips is lost if he accidentally laughs too hard or shares his goofy smile; his whipcord slimness borders on frail, and some larger men (or, in other words, the kind of men Charles lusts for) are ironically intimidated; even his bright, baby blues cannot make up for the ugly, patchy flush that creeps across his cheeks and odd nose when he’s warm or embarrassed or spirals past tipsy. His pleasant physical appearance, compounded with his undeterrable charm, has given Charles a placid confidence yet, while he has a certain level of healthy conceit about his body, Charles cannot help but doubt Erik’s sanity as he gawks at Charles’s lap.

For a moment, Charles thinks Erik is staring at his half-hard, pink cock and he fidgets, unable to stand the heat in the other man's eyes. No one Charles has been with has been as intense and honest in their lust as Erik; it's as unnerving as it is provocative, and Charles has to clench his fists to keep from covering himself. Only when Erik brushes a cracked knuckle over the soft skin of his inner thigh does Charles realize otherwise.

Charles' embarrassment shifts quickly into confusion. He could understand if Erik were enamoured of his flushed cock, but his pupils are blown and his breathing is heavy; it's as though he's never seen a pair of naked legs. Charles cannot fathom it, especially since there is nothing particularly spectacular about them. His thighs are mostly hairless and embarrassingly pale, and not a single freckle in sight. Save for the vibrant pinch of red where Erik's knee had fallen on him— _God,_ Charles thinks inanely, _will it bruise?_ —the milky planes are unmarred. The thatch of coarse and curling hair around Charles' cock and blooming on his balls are mildly respectable, but nothing that deserves the dazed stare Erik pins to his thighs.

It’s been only a short while, less than a minute for certain, but Charles’ cheeks and ears burn under the scrutiny regardless. Crossing his legs would be a futile endeavor, so Charles attempts to distract Erik; he catches one of Erik's hands and tugs until Erik's wrist is between his teeth. He sucks the tight skin and bites it teasingly. If Erik would give him reason, Charles would suck until the capillaries burst and a hickey formed, a livid mark for all the world to see. Yet—torn between the desire to mark Erik and the caution that won't let him—Erik pulls away to push Charles' slacks and underwear down his calves and over his ankles. They join Charles' vest and long-sleeve shirt on the floor.

The sudden movement and his nudity makes Charles tense; it's not the first time Charles has been completely naked with another person, but the act and the implied intimacy are still unfamiliar enough to send a jolt of nervous energy down Charles' spine. He doesn't want to stop—good lord, he _never_ wants the sensation of Erik's hot, solid body undulating against him to end—but his fingers twitch nonetheless.

Yet any protest Charles might have had is lost when, without warning, Erik drops his head to his groin and _licks._

The line he draws is a simple one, a wet and cold trail from the curve of Charles’ thigh up to vee of his pelvis. Erik lingers for a breath, his teeth sharp against Charles' soft flesh, before he bestows another lick. And another. And another, until he turns to Charles' other neglected flank. He gives this thigh more attention than the other; each caress is a long, moist path from the hardness of Charles’ knee to the sensitive inside of his thigh to the sharp edge of his pelvis.

Charles curls his fingers into Erik’s hair, the strands stiff with grease from long nights at the studio. "Please," he murmurs. His nails scratch into Erik's scalp. "Please Erik."

Erik ignores him.

It isn't long until Charles is boneless against the futon, toes curled and spine bowed towards Erik. No one has ever teased him so cruelly, so magnificently, and Charles begs. It's so easy to start with a polite please; it's easier still to devolve into filthy pleading, _suck me_ and _swallow me_ and _your gorgeous mouth._ Very deliberately, Erik ignores the implications of what Charles is asking for and, instead, does as he wants: light pecks for kisses, short jabbing licks, long hard sucks, and bites that barely squeeze Charles’ skin between Erik’s teeth but are tight enough that light pink speckles dot his thighs.

They’re such simple actions, such simple touches, but each is a starburst of chaos and heat in Charles’ stomach. Each leaves Charles’ thighs quivering, as though his muscles were as fragile and fluttering young branches buffeted by a thunderstorm. He doesn’t need to demand anything from Erik to make him give more and more and more...

By the time Erik's touches are more the sting of teeth than the slide of tongue, Charles is moaning with every other exhale. The sounds are high-pitched, breathless, and wanton even to his own ears; he's afraid they sound fake and he's embarrassed how each one rises in his throat and escapes the cage of his teeth before he can swallow the noise down. Despite this, Charles has tucked his feet practically under his knees to elevate his hips as he strains for Erik, who kisses and bites a frenzy across Charles’ thighs indiscriminately, his tongue running haggard on the edge of Charles’ pubic hair when he gets wickedly close to Charles' dick.

"Please!" Charles gasps and finally, _finally,_ Erik presses a kiss to his cockhead.

The pressure is faint and chaste but Charles is wound tight and desperate. He arches off the bed so quickly that Erik is forced to open his mouth and allow an inch. Charles whines as Erik’s teeth scrape against the oversensitive flesh; his hips stutter blindly into the wet hollow despite the high, thin spark of pain. Although the intrusion is abrupt and demanding—with a prick of shame, Charles knows it is more aggressive than he has ever been—Erik reacts as if he planned Charles’ movement. His hands rush to Charles’ hips to hold them down as he sucks lightly and hums, pleased, at the taste of Charles’ pre-come and the salt on his skin.

As Charles writhes in the sheets and moans disconnected words that have no meaning, Erik slowly takes more of Charles's cock in. Erik flattens his tongue to swallow Charles deeper and the roughness of it blindsides him; Charles squeezes his eyes shut but the safe darkness behind his eyelids offers little reprieve. Charles can hear the faint struggle of Erik trying to breathe and can feel Erik's mouth and throat work around his penis, deeper and deeper until his nose is scratching in Charles' pubic hair. Then he stops.

In that moment, Charles knows he isn't going to last long. He has wanted Erik since their eyes made contact in the hallway just outside their lecture room and, while the amorphous want has morphed into definitive and detailed desire, the intensity has only multiplied. He loves Erik and it is simply too much.

Erik pulls back just as Charles thinks Erik's mouth will be the quick and embarrassing end of him, and continues to lick and suck Charles' cock. He is laboriously slow in his ministrations; each slide of his tongue and lips against Charles' hot skin drags. There isn't enough pressure behind his wet touches and, too soon, Charles' hips are jerking in a primal need for more. Erik laughs at him, the curve of his teeth against Charles' shaft and the puff of noise smothered by the soft crease of skin between his thigh and his groin.

Charles whines—desperately, unconsciously, and embarrassingly—in response to Erik's teasing, but at least Erik concedes that his tongue is not enough. A hand releases its hold on Charles’ hip and slides over to cup his balls. Charles jerks as Erik tests the weight in his hand, as his thumb rubs circles over the soft, crinkled skin.

"Erik," Charles murmurs, " _Erik._ "

Heat builds deep in Charles' body, beneath and behind the indent of his bellybutton, and every touch forces the pressure to build and build. When Erik sinks down and presses his mouth, his teeth, his tongue to the line of Charles' perineum, when he swipes his callused thumb too hard over the head of Charles' cock, when his finger presses to the pucker of Charles' hole, it's as though Erik is a fire set to Charles' short fuse. He can feel his orgasm rising and Erik might want more from him than he's willing to give at the moment—something he will want eventually, because this is _Erik_ and he wants to do everything with Erik—so Charles puts a hand in Erik's short hair and _pulls._

"Please, Erik," he begs and hopes that Erik doesn't misunderstand him. "Please, I've not done that before—"

Erik's finger tenses against Charles' hole, firm and dry. "Fuck," he hisses as he turns his head back to Charles' thigh, lips dragging the words and eyelashes sweeping against the skin. "The things you do to me."

Abruptly, Erik sits back up, Charles' legs falling on either side of his hips. Then his hand tightens around Charles' cock and he roughly jerks his fist, once, twice, thrice. Charles breaks and everything spills from him in a deluge: his come thick and viscous, his voice pitched high, and his back tensed into a perfect arch. For a moment, all Charles knows is the white of ecstasy—until his brain reboots and he's back on Erik's thin futon, his thighs trembling about Erik's broad waist, as Erik catches all of Charles' come in his broad palm.

"Perfection," Erik murmurs, his eyes soft in the dim light, and Charles cannot help but wonder what the other man sees. An odd mix of embarrassment, discomfort, and happiness suffuses Charles' cheeks in a dark, patchy blush. He does not look away, however, his stare affixed to the elated, almost predatory gleam in Erik's eyes.

They are still for as long as it takes for Charles to regain his breath. Erik's thumb rubs circles into Charles' stomach, half-ticklish and half-soothing, before Charles' gaze meanders down the glistening line of Erik's well-formed chest and abdomen, to where Erik's cock pushes incessantly and undeniably against the placket of his jeans. When Charles jerks his gaze upwards, Erik's smile widens to expose all his teeth.

"Oh," Charles breathes.

With his unspoiled hand, Erik thumbs open the metal button of his jeans and unzips. Charles' mouth goes dry when he sees that Erik isn't wearing any underwear; there's simply the dark curls of his groin and his thick, red cock. He's bigger and thicker than Charles and it makes Charles' blood hot and short-circuits his brain with another needleprick of want. "Oh," Charles says again, stretching the syllable with a whine.

Charles is so distracted by Erik's beautiful cock—the heft of it, the width of the base, and the tiny upwards curve—that he yelps in shock when Erik smears his sensitive inner thighs with his come-stained hand and spreads Charles' cool ejaculate across Charles' skin.

"What—" Charles blurts as Erik grabs his knees and pulls his legs up and up, until Charles' hamstrings are flush with Erik's hot chest and his calves are thrown over one powerful shoulder. Erik's cock is trapped between Charles' thighs; the crimson head peeks out, dark against Charles' soft white flesh, and Charles can feel the heaviness of Erik's balls against the curve of his rear.

"Like this," Erik says brokenly, rolling his hips. His cock slides in the space, the motion made smooth with Charles' come. There's little drag, yet just enough friction to make Charles' nerves tingle and sing. "Just like this."

Charles makes a small noise of wonder in the back of his throat and Erik must take it as acceptance, because he begins to rut against Charles, hard and earnest. Low grunts escape his mouth with every push. His scrotum slaps against Charles' skin faintly, distinct claps barely audible beneath the harshness of Erik's breathing. His grip around Charles' knees borders on painful—the tips of his fingers dig into the tendons and ligaments around the patella—and the hurt is as much pleasure as pain. Erik's eyes are hooded and sly, his head is tilted back, and his neck is hyperextended, the apple of his throat working beneath his skin as indecent and encouraging words fall from his mouth: "Come on, squeeze your legs tight. Tighter. Good. God, Charles. Look at you. _Look at you._ "

Pleasure stirs in Charles' blood. It isn't the same hot insistence that made him hard, but it makes him smile sloppily and makes him bold. He presses a hand between his legs, lets the head of Erik's cock grind against his palm until Erik's hip stutter. Erik cries out once when he comes—low, guttural, and primal—and his dick pulses between Charles' legs. Erik's come leaks all over Charles' thighs and slips into the creases of his hips; Charles shouldn't find it as arousing as he does, and he shouldn't feel so safe, as though being covered in Erik's come has marked and possessed and claimed him.

"Fuck," Erik swears once he's found his voice again, as his fingers uncurl from Charles' knees, as his chest heaves in the struggle for air. With only the dredges of adrenaline left, Erik's body sags in exhaustion, the line of his powerful body bowing inwards. Charles doesn't think as he lifts his calves off Erik's shoulders and pulls the other man down, until Erik's head rests against his chest and he can pull the cheap sheets over their bodies. Erik comes willingly and presses his nose into Charles' sternum with a sigh.

Charles gives a brief thought to the wetness between his thighs and spackling his lower belly and hips. But when Erik throws an arm around Charles' waist and pushes one of his strong thighs between Charles' legs, Charles doesn't want to get up and leave for any reason, least of all the threat of dried come. So he relaxes into the futon and winds a hand around the nape of Erik's neck, running his thumb against the grain of his hair until Erik has fallen asleep.

"I could get used to this," Charles whispers. Only the soft black of the night hears his confession. It's too soon to voice the truth that lingers inside him but, with a certainty Charles is unable to explain or deny, he knows that he can take his time.

.

The next morning, Charles partially wakes up when Erik slowly disentangles himself from Charles' hold and the twisted sheets. Charles has never been a morning person, so he listens to the soft noises Erik makes as he rolls a cigarette and watches Erik smoke on the balcony in a vague daze. Erik doesn't close the sliding glass door all the way when he goes outside; the sharp cold and the sharper smoke creep into the small apartment. Charles pulls the sheets up to his shoulders and burrows his chin into the folds to keep the last bit of warmth around him.

"You look cold," Charles mumbles groggily as Erik comes back inside. Erik's cheeks, nose, fingertips, and chest are bright pink. "You should come back to bed. I'll warm you up."

Erik smiles indulgently at him and does as he suggests.

Charles doesn't know how long they lie there, drifting in that delicate and muddled area between consciousness and sleep. Slowly, Charles twists himself around the broad, warm line of Erik's body, with his palm curled over Erik's side, his cheek pillowed by Erik's bicep, and his legs tucked between Erik's muscular thighs. It's the first time he's spent the night in someone else's bed and it excites him as much as it makes him nervous. He doesn't know what to say to Erik without sounding too serious or too flippant and he doesn't know how he should act when they eventually pull away from one another. Agitated energy builds and builds inside his chest until he thinks he might explode.

This is when Charles' stomach decides to make itself known.

"Sorry," Charles says with a nervous laugh and reaches down to pull the sheets away from his body. Reality starts to set in at that moment, as though the sheets had been protecting him from his student life responsibilities. He needs to check his phone for the time—he's already probably missed his Organic Chemistry II class—get dressed, and walk back to campus for a shower. He can feel the salt of sweat clinging into the creases of his skin and the tightness of dried come on his thighs but, when he pulls the low thread count sheet completely off him, neither Charles nor Erik is prepared for the sight that greets them.

Charles' body is ravaged. His creamy thighs are splattered with dried cum and bite marks, there is a roughly circular bruise on the swell of his muscle from the blunt fall of Erik's knee, and tiny dots of purple-blue litter the hollows on either side of his knees. He looks like he was mauled, and a strong surge of lust pulses through Charles.

"Oh," Charles exhales and chances a glance at Erik. The other man returns his stare, his pupils dark and wide. The sudden want is so clearly etched on Erik's face that Charles knows, without doubt, that the devastation of his body turns Erik on just as much as it does him. It's overwhelming and Charles quickly and distractingly stutters, "I don't suppose you have a bathroom?"

"There's a communal bath down the hall," Erik replies, his voice is low and rough. Charles instantly feels the heat of a blush rise unbidden in his cheeks at the thought of some stranger seeing him so terribly debauched. It is an intimate state, and he wants to jealously keep it between him and Erik. The discomfort the voyeuristic idea causes Charles must be plain on his face, because a moment later, Erik mutters a quick, "Hold on."

Naked and unashamed, Erik rises from the futon and goes into the small kitchen. Charles watches the flex and relax of his muscles as he pulls an old but clean towel from one of the cabinets and runs it under the sink. As an afterthought, Erik grabs a chipped bowl from the cabinet as well and puts a few tangerines from the small fridge in it. Then he walks back over to the futon and sits cross-legged in front of Charles, bowl in one hand and towel in the other.

Charles has never been involved in a 'The Morning After' situation before and, when he looks at Erik, it belatedly occurs to him that maybe Erik hasn't either—at least, not with someone he was a friend to and had to interact with afterwards. There's a small crinkle of indecisiveness between his eyebrows, as though he didn't understand how he got to this point, and the corners of his long mouth are turned down in an electric concentration Charles rarely sees outside the studio.

Yet before Charles can say something or do anything, Erik shakes his head as though to clear it, sets the bowl of tangerines to the side, and gently touches one of Charles' bruised knees. Charles is suffocated by the affection that rises between his lungs and, if he hadn't realized he was in love the night before, he would have realized it now.

"Lie back," Erik says with a gravity that suits the fluttering in Charles' chest, "and spread your legs."

So Charles does.


End file.
